Azkaban
by sephiesport
Summary: Sirius Black's experiences in Azkaban, beginning shortly after the murders of James and Lily.
1. Chapter 1

Sirius Black didn't understand how they could possibly have done this to him.

How could the Wizengamot have just dumped him in a cell in Azkaban with no trial?

It wouldn't have been all that difficult for him to let them know they had the wrong man- one little sip of Veritaserum and the whole truth would come spilling out. There was no way any one of them would seriously still believe he'd so mercilessly betrayed the only family he'd ever had... that he was the reason they were dead...

_Do not think of James, do not think of Lily._

Sirius curled up in the corner of the little concrete cell, his back pressed against the wall, his knees pulled to his chest, his dark hair falling into his face, still splattered in blood from the muggles Wormtail had destroyed.

The chains around his wrists and ankles were painfully tight and they chaffed against his skin. But Sirius didn't mind the pain- he had spent the last few days in a haze of mental agony influenced by the dementors, and the physical pain in his limbs grounded him, kept his mind from simply floating away. It reminded him of what was real and what wasn't.

Unfortunately, reality was every bit as bad as any thought the dementors could bring to his mind.

He closed his eyes, an overwhelming feeling of depression seizing upon him.

His best friends were dead.

He'd never see them again. Never joke with James, never flirt with Lily teasingly. And he'd never-

He cut his mind off, refused to let that train of thought grow any stronger.

It was just the dementors, only an artificial feeling of guilt-

_Guilty._

It pounded through his head and he flinched, shuddering from the thought. He _did_ have some blame to take; after all, he had urged them to switch their Secret-Keeper to Peter-

_Not guilty,_ he forced himself to think. He had had no idea Peter was working for Voldemort. It had been a good plan. It should have been the perfect bluff. If Peter hadn't been a traitor, Voldemort would have gone after Sirius, and no matter how much they tortured him, he wouldn't have been able to betray his friends. It had been a good plan. Not his fault.

But the dementors were there, lurking right past the bars, and there was truth to what they were forcing him to think.

_Guilty._

He would never have thought he'd end up here, never believed he's ever even have to _worry_ about having Prongs and Lils be dead-

_Not guilty._

Sirius curled up tighter, squeezing his hands against the sides of his head as though he could press out the conflicting voices that were arguing inside of it.

He felt like he was falling down a tunnel, spinning towards an indefinable bottom, his heart rising in his chest and hurting more than he had ever thought it could.

_I didn't kill them._

Lily was the one who had always been an optimist, who had comforted Sirius when things went wrong, who had almost made him believe that there was such a thing as a happy ending. After all, if Lily Evans could marry James Potter, anything could happen, right?

But it couldn't. People couldn't change. Sirius was proof of that himself, wasn't he? He had thought he was so different, being a Gryffindor, being in the Order of the Phoenix, fighting the Death Eaters with his best friends by his side, but he had wound up in Azkaban anyway, just like the rest of his good-for-nothing relatives. Black by name and black by nature.

_But it was my fault all the same._

Because of him_, _James would never see his baby boy grow up, never ride another broomstick, never cast another spell, never know his grandchildren, never kiss his wife again. And Lily-

_No. Do not think of Lily. Do not think of James._

But he couldn't stop himself. He was drowning, swallowed up by a sorrow that he was floundering in.

He'd never been good at emotions and now he was choking on them, too many to name and too complicated to explain.

And those blasted dementors weren't helping, they were sending him back to the time when he ran away from home, when his brother Regulus had punched him in the face and they'd hexed each other, when Prongs and Moony and even that slimy little traitor, Wormtail, had decided they could no longer be friends because of that little prank he'd pulled on Snivellus, finding out Marlene was dead, too… Every horrible experience he'd ever had floated to the top of his mind… He just wanted to die… At least then he'd be with them_…_

But death was not something he would be permitted to taste any time soon. His fate was to be incarcerated until he either died of old age or illness, or the dementors took his soul. In which case, even if there _was_ anything after this miserable, horrible existence, he would never get to see it, never get to reunite with Lily and James. And in the meantime, there would be many long years of living nightmare for him, and the worst part- young Harry would grow up thinking Sirius was his parents' murderer…

This, finally, was too much. After easily the worst three days of his life, Sirius Black finally succumbed to his emotions. Everything he was feeling was crushing in on him, and as though the pressure was real and tangible, he could no longer hold himself up, no longer bear to feel the despair that had burdened him since Hallowe'en… He collapsed to the floor of the frigid, filthy cell, sobbing.


	2. Chapter 2

Twelve Years Later

Cornelius Fudge did not enjoy visiting Azkaban. The dementors- as much as he did not like to admit it- gave him the willies and even his Patronus could not entirely keep the overall feeling of gloom at bay. He supposed it wasn't just the dementors that made the island so miserable- the fact that it was inhabited by the world's darkest witches and wizards greatly increased the horror of the place. But, despite his serious misgivings about the place, it was his duty as Minister of Magic to check up on certain prisoners, make sure the prison was running smoothly, get someone to remove the dead bodies once the criminals had had enough…

Still. He would be glad to be done with this routine inspection. Fudge straightened the bowler hat on top of his head, his newspaper tucked under his arm, as he walked along the hallways.

It was strange, really, how inspections were done here. The dementors couldn't exactly _speak_, yet they had a way of talking all the same, and they certainly understood English, for when Fudge gave an order, it was always followed promptly. He was glad of this; he didn't even want to think about a world wherein dementors disobeyed.

A rattling _thump_ jolted Fudge out of his thoughts and he jumped, for something had thrown itself against the door of the cell nearest to him. _Those doors are reinforced with so many spells Dumbledore himself couldn't get past them,_ Fudge reminded himself, fiddling with his tie. He got twitchy when nervous, and nothing made him more nervous than being surrounded by criminals. He knew the stories of what they had done, he had even seen some of the wreckage left behind…

The dementor that was leading him glided down the corridor ahead of Fudge and his Patronus- a brilliantly silver ferret- circled more tightly around him protectively. From somewhere to his left, he could hear a voice laughing maniacally, and at the door he was now passing he could barely glimpse a man rocking back and forth, muttering something about his mother. Fudge had the feeling that this was not, indeed, a prison, but was in fact a mental ward.

A shiver crawled up his spine as he heard a prisoner- a witch, by the sound of it- murmuring a nursery rhyme. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the voices and phrases rush over him, feeling quite simply, cold.

"-Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall-"

"-Mummy, I want to go home-"

"-please, I didn't do anything, it wasn't my fault-"

"-all the king's horses and all the king's men-"

Fudge coughed once, clearing his throat. "Well, it all looks very- er- fine," he said out loud to the dementor nearest him, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "Well done, the prisoners look very well cared for and secured-" Not that he cared about the well-being of the prisoners, the _securing_ of them was far more important-

"Hello, Minister," croaked a hoarse voice.

For one foolish moment, Fudge almost thought that the dementor had spoken; he looked around the hallway wildly and felt rather sheepish when he realised the voice had emanated from one of the cells.

Fudge peered through the small bars at the window-shaped opening at the top of the door. Upon seeing the inhabitant, he did not need to look at the name plate outside of the cell to know who he was speaking to. Fudge would have recognized the man anywhere; sometimes he still had nightmares of that night, almost thirteen years ago… blood and remains everywhere, a whole street blown apart, thirteen dead, and just one laughing, mad man…

"Er- Hello, Black," said the Minister uncertainly, as though he wasn't entirely sure the prisoner would not explode in the process of speaking. It calmed him somewhat to know the wizard was certainly chained to the wall, and that without a wand, he was entirely unable to hurt anyone. But nonetheless, Fudge would have desired to stay as far away from Sirius Black as possible. He wasn't sure what to say next, as asking 'how do you do' suddenly seemed rather pointless and 'good to see you' would simply be too large of a lie… Luckily, Black spoke up first, saving Fudge from having to make his mind up.

"I see you're reading the Prophet?" said Black, his voice ragged from disuse, nodding towards the paper under Fudge's arm. "Is it today's?"

Fudge looked down and jumped in surprise, as though he had forgotten he had the paper at all and could not remember how it had gotten there.

"Yes," said Fudge, too surprised to elaborate and feeling rather dizzy that he was having such a normal conversation with this man.

"Have you finished with it yet?" said Black rather lazily, and before Fudge could answer yes or no, Black continued speaking. "Because if so, do you think I could take a look at it? It's been quite a long time and I miss doing the crossword…"

Fudge forced himself to blink, utterly bewildered. Most people in Azkaban went out-of-their-minds mental in a few days, and here was Sirius Black, conversing quite calmly about the newspaper after twelve years of incarceration under heavy guard.

"Well- I- I suppose so," spluttered Fudge, and before he could really think about what he was doing, he took the newspaper from under his arm and slipped it through the bars while the picture of the large, red-haired wizarding family blinked up at him from the front page.

Black reached for the paper, and his movements were sharp and jolting, as though he had to remind his own body how to start moving and how to stop. "Fantastic. Thanks, Minister."

"You're… welcome," said Fudge, and the words sounded strange in his ears. He waited a moment in case Black had anything more to say, but Black had picked up the newspaper and was staring at it intently, his dark eyes devouring the words, seemingly having forgotten that Fudge was even there.

Finally, Fudge moved away, leaving the cell and glancing over his shoulder, but he still itched with the strange feeling that Sirius Black was laughing at him.

Sirius gripped the newspaper in his hand so tightly that his already pallid knuckles had turned deathly white. It had been two days since Fudge had given him the paper, and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. The crossword was, not surprisingly, forgotten, as Sirius had happened upon something much more shocking on the front page of the newspaper that had driven all thoughts of the crossword from his mind.

He stared at the picture on the front page of the Daily Prophet, simultaneously sure his eyes were fooling him and knowing they were not. It just… what were the chances?

The one time he'd been permitted to see a newspaper in twelve years, and grinning up at him was a large wizarding family, who apparently had won a great deal of money. But that wasn't the important bit. What was bothering Sirius was who was perched upon the shoulder of the youngest boy. And who could it be but Peter Pettigrew, as rat-like as ever, a finger missing off of his tiny paw.

Frankly, it was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that Sirius could scarcely believe that Peter had come up with it. To cut off his own finger and then live the following years as a rat in an unsuspecting wizarding family… it was so devious that Sirius suspected Peter had had help coming up with it. Maybe from Voldemort himself… after all, he was bound to be grateful for having been given the Potters on a silver platter…

Sirius had been given twelve years to ponder, and the only reason he hadn't gone completely mental in the time since he had been imprisoned was because of _this_… was because he knew he wasn't guilty.

But now, now he could survive because he was the only one who knew that Wormtail was still out there, was going to Hogwarts with the red-headed Weasley boy, might try to kill off the last bit of the Potters while he had the chance, and because Sirius felt like he had the responsibility to make sure Lily and James' son was kept safe…

Harry would be thirteen years old now, Sirius reminded himself. Just a little bit older than he and James and Peter had been when they had discovered Remus's little secret. Sirius wanted to meet Harry so badly; he couldn't help but imagine that if he had Harry in his life, maybe it'd be a bit- a bit like having James.

No, that was stupid. Sirius closed his eyes, his heart feeling suspiciously achy again. It never did any good to think about what could have been- it only ever made him hurt, feel like his heart was imploding in his own chest.

Without worrying at all about whether or not a dementor was nearby, Sirius urged his body to turn into the familiar dog form that had been his literal second nature since he was fifteen years old. Already the pain in his chest felt better, ebbing away as Padfoot's simple emotions overwhelmed his own.

It was how he had survived all of these years in prison, by transforming into a dog. The first time he had done it had been almost three months after he had been incarcerated. Sirius had been reluctant to let himself transform, worried that the dementors would somehow find out what he had done… But, when he could not handle any more of the pain, he simply transformed, too far gone to care what the dementors did to him when they found out. It didn't really matter, anyway. After all, there wasn't much worse they could do to him than what already had been done. How could anything get worse than a lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban under heavy guard for a crime he had not committed?

But the dementors never knew that Sirius was, in fact, an Animagus. Apparently it was standard procedure for the prisoners of Azkaban to lose their sanity to the point that their mental and emotional capacities were the same as those of a dog…

A rattling noise came from the door to his cell, and he realized with a start that it must be his supper. Not that the food would be anything to be pleased about; rather, after twelve years of it, supper time was really something to be dreaded. The food was every bit as bland and miserable as the rest of the prison, and when the door to his cell opened the slightest amount, Sirius didn't bother moving or changing back to a human form. The dementors wouldn't see, and anyway, if he _did_ try anything like an escape, the dementors would swarm around him and give him the Kiss they'd been dying to since he first arrived here twelve years ago. It was hopeless.

And anyway, it helped to eat the food as a dog. Padfoot was always hungrier than Sirius was, and the horrible smell of the meal- though stronger from a dog's nose- seemed to bother Padfoot a good deal less than it bothered Sirius.

Sirius eyed the food warily, and then his dog-like instinct to eat whenever possible got the better of him: He dashed forward, his paws still bound (if loosely) by the chains that had been attached to him every waking moment for more than a decade.

He scarfed down the food, finally pushing it forward with the tip of his nose when he was full. He hadn't eaten very much- he rarely did, anymore. He was given measly portions to start with, but Sirius only ate about half of what he was given. He was getting dreadfully skinny, gaunt, even, and to be entirely honest he was glad that he hadn't been given the opportunity to see his own reflection; he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle looking at himself.

Sirius had always been proud of his insolent good looks and even though he knew it really oughtn't matter anymore, the loss of them seemed symbolic in a way, as though he had lost his youth. Which.. perhaps he had. All of his memories were certainly sullied now, by time spent in the care of dementors.

The door opened again a sliver as the dementors came to retrieve the tray, and Sirius scurried backwards, hoping illogically to escape the effects of his jailors. In his hurry to get away, he felt the chains slip, come up over the heel of his paw and get stuck there, almost halfway off of him.

This made him freeze, and he examined the chain thoughtfully. In his human form, he would never stand a chance of escaping. The dementors would realize, and besides, the chains wouldn't be loose enough to worm his way out of them.

But, as a dog… was it possible? If he ate less… he'd only need to be a little bit skinnier… he could slip out of the chain and past the bars… if he left the same day that a new prisoner arrived, the dementors would be so busy feasting on the new soul with new memories that they wouldn't even notice his mind as it left…

Because if there was a way to save Harry Potter and kill Wormtail in the process, Sirius Black was going to find it.

Sirius settled into his spot in the corner with his four legs curled up under him. His dark eyes were fixated on the door to his cell, and, with his tail swishing slowly, he began to plot.

A/N: Reviews are the best thing since mashed potatoes.

Seriously though, I'd love some feedback. :)


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